The Unemployed Life

The Last Supper

A celebration to end all celebrations…literally.

I had heard the rumors that there were more layoffs to come at Forbes, but given that my salary as a reporter was at the bottom of the newsroom totem pole, I felt certain I would not be a casualty.

Further proof of the fact that I was irreplaceable sat on my desktop: an invitation from Steve Forbes himself to a party for the African economist-turned-author Dambisa Moyo, whom I was interviewing about her new book Dead Aid. It didn’t make sense to invite me to a party and then lay me off. Or so I thought.

As I sat at my desk staring at the invitation, I fantasized that Steve would walk up to me at the party and shake my hand, praising me for all my hard work over the last two years. He would thank me for keeping the site’s readers coming back for more and enhancing the Forbes brand. He would even pat me on the back for my courage in the face of the previous December’s layoffs and would whisper not to worry – he had it all under control. My job would be safe.

Then the phones started ringing. One of the overnight editors on our team picked up the phone and said, “Yeah, I’ll be right there.” There had been whispers about restructuring and changes in the newsroom now that the magazine and the website had merged. Still I wasn’t worried.

Although you may think I am human, Forbes saw my true calling: as a writing machine. My team consisted of seven writers each of whom had to write eight fully researched, written, and fact-checked stories each day, every day. Our desk was the Lance Armstrong of breaking news, faster and more streamlined than the competition. With the motto “The Capitalist Tool,” I understood that I was not an individual, but an instrument for the larger good of the Forbes empire.

After the overnight editor’s phone rang and he disappeared into the ether of the upstairs offices, more phones started ringing. Every time a phone buzzed anywhere in the newsroom, everyone in the office jumped, thinking they were the next to get cut. When my officemate’s phone lit up – it was a source calling back for a story- I realized my heart was in my throat. This is crazy, I thought. I sat down at my desk and got to work on my third story of the day. It was not even 11 am.

That was when my phone rang. It was the newsroom editor. He wanted to see me on the seventh floor. He never wanted to see me in person, only my finished product. Something was wrong. On my way up the stairs my colleague came running down crying. My fate was sealed.

The next 15 minutes were a blur as the Human Resources director both introduced herself and told me to have a nice life all in the same breath. I signed some forms, was given some others to take home, and was told some moving boxes would be brought to my desk. I was also given a large yellow envelope — a scarlet letter — to carry through the hallway. By the time I descended the stairs, my colleagues had lined up to give me a hug: Everyone was sorry. No one could believe it. Forbes did not know what they were missing. I was such a great writer. I would find a job in no time.

Even before the castaways were out the door the remaining members of my team – now about half of its original size – were called into a meeting and reassured that their jobs were safe. But there would be no more 401(k) match and everyone would have to take a one week unpaid furlough.

While the newsroom was still in shock, I headed to the local dive bar and had a few rounds of drinks with the other layoffs. I eyed the menu wondering if I could still afford lunch since I didn’t know where my next paycheck would come from.

Good thing Steve Forbes was still in my life, at least for one last night. A friend from Forbes accompanied me to the book launch party in the W hotel in midtown Manhattan, a sleek affair where I was plied with champagne and sushi. As I was stuffing my face all I could think was that the cost of the party could have paid my salary for at least a few more months, which probably says more about my salary than how lavish the party was.

Steve stood diagonally across the room from me chatting pleasantly with a group of hangers-on. He looked like he did not have a care in the world. He definitely did not look like a man who just laid off a few dozen people. Maybe he would go home take off his tie and pledge to go on a hunger strike in solidarity with the starving writers. Maybe he had not even heard about the layoffs. For the second time that day I fantasized about Steve Forbes, something I swore I would never let happen again. As I ate my mouthwatering mini-burger – wishing for once it was not so mini – I wondered what would happen if I walked up to Steve and introduced myself. “Hi, I’d say. “I am Ruthie.”

“Ruthie, Ruthie, who?”

“Oh, Steve, I am so glad you asked.”

Tags: Forbes, last supper, layoff, party